


Pygmalion's Daughter

by arisanite



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Art, Body Worship, Creator-Creation, Erotica, F/M, Innocence, Mythology - Freeform, Pygmalion, Reader fic - Freeform, Sculpture, Secret love, Smut, art student, artist, living sculpture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arisanite/pseuds/arisanite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the mythology “Pygmalion”. But what if it’s the statue that falls in love with the artist? He is allowed to live as long as he doesn’t touch her, and vice versa. Or else, he would turn back into stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pygmalion's Daughter

**Author's Note:**

> [Wolfie](http://iamthebadwolf85.tumblr.com) made me do it.
> 
> ~~But she also proofed it so I am thankful. <3~~

There he was, sleeping in your bed.

Despite the numerous materials you decide to waste your money on, the only kind of bed you could afford was this one made of the most basic wood and sold in the cheapest local furniture shop you can find. And what was peculiar was that on this one night, this one fateful night, you find him sleeping alone.

You saw his chiseled chest rise and fall ever so slowly underneath your covers.  He was a thing of beauty, a thing to beheld, like Sleeping Beauty in eternal slumber, those cheeks slightly rouge in the pale moonlight. Of course it bothered you.  After all you remember how that skin used to be plain, cold alabaster, the chest unmoving, that body made of stone instead of the living, breathing flesh he is now.

 

You remember how you created him.

 

***

 

You are one of _the_ most celebrated artists hailing from your small and sleepy town, and you decided to go back home after your long period of studying in Europe, learning about the Masters. The first thing you created after returning from attaining your accreditation as an artist, was _him_.

Putting your talent to the best use, you worked with scrutinizing eyes watching you from around town. Your old mentors, former rivals, your avid colleagues could not wait to see what you were creating. For months you worked with the smoothest slab of stone, trying to envision the artwork within. You wanted it to be a thousand things, something that would remind the viewer of Michelangelo but that would emulate Raphael. You wanted to be known for your Classic inspiration laced with a modern take. You wanted to bring life to what you called the “modern man.”

For a week after its completion, after sleepless nights of soiling your hands and the occasional wounded finger, it stood complete but veiled in your studio. You washed your hands before you revealed it to the public, following your private tradition of refusing to touch a finished sculpture before it had its proper debut. Various museums bid against one another for it to be shown in their esteemed galleries, but you decided upon this local art center that which you wanted to support. With a temporary personal assistant to help you hurdle through the first viewing, you had a few papers fixed for your new masterpiece and in a few days you knew you were ready.

Your mentors teared up and your rivals bit their tongues when he was unveiled.

“He’s beautiful,” was the common response left on the tongues of everyone who was at the unveiling.

He stood tall, the entire height of the sculpture spanning six feet two. Some said he was as built as the Farnese Hercules, but those who were more educated in the arts compared him more to Michelangelo's _David_.

A hand poised at the waist with his gait weighed upon one leg, everything about him looked divine from the divot of his nose to the slenderness of his legs. A thin sheet of cloth was meticulously threaded from older his shoulder around his slender waist, making sure not to hide as much, but definitely to emphasize that manhood that suited this demigod among other sculptures.

He was made of pure ivory, shining white under the bright lights of the museum, although you imagined the color of the curls of his hair and the depth of those eyes. But these details only remained privy to your memory as you nodded and smiled at your patrons, describing the artwork as you saw it.

 

“She is such a gifted artist” and “Her touch can bring sculptures to life” were only some of the praise that escaped your colleagues’ mouths when they first gazed upon the artwork.

You used to think of that as a compliment. You just never knew that this statement would ever become so literal.

 

As your mentors argued with their colleagues about the theme and your inspiration, you sat back along the mini bar while you admired your work and the creative ruckus it was creating. You sipped wine in all your peace of mind not realizing that your first work, your _baby_ ,  was about to be shipped somewhere else.

You were expressionless and apathetic when it went to a well-known yet minor museum in Paris, and the day came when representatives arrived to look at your sculpture from the lobby of the local museum where it experienced its debut.

“All our creations are our children,” a well-known artist once said. Your sentimental assistant that had less than a week left in your service had so much to say, but she barely knew how this was your way of saying goodbye to something you once carefully molded and loved with your own calloused hands. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to him?”

“It’s just a statue, Cecile,” you said crossly, already drinking as early as noon, ignoring the movers who were starting to measure and prep on how they were supposed to ship the sculpture out of its current holding place. “No need to humanize it.”

“But he’s still yours,” she insisted, touching your arm. “Surely you will miss the first work you’ve ever done?”

You look up at that noble face that reminded you of the Greeks and Romans of old, wondering if you’ve ever seen such a face before or you’ve invented this one from your own memory. Sure, you used a model for the sculpture you called _The Deliverer_ , but you definitely did not base the face on that lean young man who frequently dressed in leather and walked the streets at night to provide a personal services to men and women who were fifty and above. You were quite sure that if your _Deliverer_ lived in real life he would have been a poet, a philanthropist, or even a man of knowledge.

That is, if he truly lived.

“I’ll always be fond of him, I guess,” you muttered as you approached your creation, realizing that ever since you wiped away the ivory’s dust and cleaned up your creative mess, you never really touched your sculpture ever since you had it veiled. “But it’s time for him to see the world.”

You didn’t understand why, but you felt heat underneath your palm as you slid your hand over the cold base of stone that stood much higher than you.

And with that you were prepared to say goodbye.

Curiously, you completely forgot about the _Deliverer_ (save for some pictures in your phone and your portfolio), until you received calls from the museum in Paris almost 24 hours later that their package never arrived.

You were on the phone with the shipment company and the local museum that housed your artwork when you opened the door to your studio only to find a man wrapped in a sheet sleeping on your doorstep.

He opened his eyes and smiled as he saw your face, causing you to drop the phone that had the Curator from Paris on the other line.

“ _May I have some water, mistress?_ ”

The way he spoke with that cool collected English accent you did not expect to come from that mouth you fashioned closed with a quiet smile, startled you.

You didn’t know how to explain it, but you suddenly understood why _The Deliverer_ was missing.

 

 

***

 

He looked exactly like him.

He looked exactly the way you imagined him, when your hands were still pressed against the surface of the ivory block, your eyes closed as you tried to imagine the sculpture within.

He had the same gold curls that crowned his head, the same sharp cheekbones that would make male models cry, and the same square face that is softened by that warm gentle smile spread against those thin yet luscious lips. As the artist of such a wonderfully conceived sculpture, you are gifted with the view of him gracefully moving across your studio, as he gratefully accepted the meal you offered him.

Despite what you already know, a tinge of amusement nagged at your senses upon seeing bits of his personality shining through the flesh you once conceived as stone, as he wolfed down the meal he had on his plate, completely famished.

But he refused to recognize himself as _Tomás the Deliverer_ , the complete title of the artwork as it had been signed on the papers you sent over to the Paris Museum.

He only called himself Tom.

“The name has a more natural feel to it,” _Tom_ spoke, as you sat there with your supposed breakfast for one in front of the man who looked exactly like that block of stone you fashioned into a human almost two months ago. “Don’t you think, mistress?”

You felt yourself blink absurdly at the title given to you.

As much as a part of you were delighted to be recognized as his Maker, the entire reality of your capability to bring a statue to life with the power only God the Father possesses just completely gave you an inner fright that your soul couldn’t just easily shake off.

“So you’re saying you’re _Tomás the Deliverer_ ,” you snapped lividly, thinking of ringing up the police. But the idea of trying to explain to a well-respected art museum why a 160-pound sculpture would disappear under your nose would definitely ruin your career, so you silently decided to deal with the current issue at hand.

More like the unexplainably living creature sitting in front of you.

“Just Tom, my lady,” he whispered, a sweet smile spreading across that angled face, highlighting those sharp cheekbones. “I wish you’d call me just that. We don’t have to be formal with the entire name you fashioned for me.”

You took a deep breath, trying to understand whether this was a lunatic, a rival who destroyed your artwork and pretended to be it to drive you insane in order to take credit of your work, or it was the real thing himself.

You shook your head, trying not to personify a block of ivory again.

But you couldn’t. He was there in front of you, living, breathing, and was eating your toast.

As you gaped at him and let your playful eyes wander through his physique, you barely noticed how the man suddenly turned red, a testament to how real he could be, as he looked back down and began to wolf down what was left of his eggs, bacon, and toast.

“Wow,” you said in complete awe, both your hand cupping your cheeks as you placed your mug that read _Not Watercolor_ down your rough and unpolished dining table, as you stood up on your feet and began to circle the man. Seeing this, Tom suddenly turned even redder, the rouge creeping down from those cheeks to the hollow in his sternum, nestled between those two healthy pectorals.

“I just –” like a true artist encountering her painting coming to life, you inspected his initial physique not covered by the thin white veil that was originally part of your sculpture, now modestly clinging around his waist to keep him decent. “I just can’t believe you’re real, that you’re here…”

 

As you reached to touch him, the man suddenly jerked backwards and away from your fingertips, clearly looking uncomfortable with the gesture.

 

Raising your eyebrows and putting both hands up in the air, you backed away from the living statue sitting on your table and went back to your seat. “Okay,” you mutter assuringly. “Okay buddy, I’m not gonna touch you...”

He blinked for a bit and suddenly looked regretful, as you found yourself gaping at a pair of puppy-dog eyes you never thought he would make. Despite being a tall and robust figure as you designed him, the way he tucked his chest and shoulders inwards made him look so small and vulnerable, making you realize the complete extent of humanity your artwork has been turned into.

Suddenly, you couldn’t stop thinking of various books you have read, and for some goddamn reason Asimov’s works and other creator-creation moral stories began to cloud your conscience.

“I’m sorry,” he sounded so remorseful. “But,” the man called Tom bit his lip. “I’m not allowed to touch you.”

You raise your eyebrows once more. “And why is that?”

The man fidgeted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with whatever knowledge he has about this entire phenomenon that could jump out of the pages of science fiction.

Possibly even fantasy.

Especially mythology.

“They said...” his voice faltered. “They said I’m not allowed to touch you.” He ran those long slender fingers on his own soft skin, seemingly looking forlorn as he tore those blue eyes from yours. “Nor were you to touch me. They said that as a condition for me to come to life, I...if I were to stay on this earth and live like a normal person – like I’ve always wanted to do – I am not to come in contact with my maker.” He ended with a sour note, those thin lips pouting as he subtly looked in your direction.

However, those blue eyes quickly darted out of the way as you looked up from your bitter cup of coffee.

“Who’s they?”

He pursed his lips and ran his fingers on the surface of his skin again, and wrapped his arms around himself, as if he wished to be embraced. “The gods.” he whispered.

You furrow your eyebrows. “Huh?”

He turned to look at you, those ice-cold blue eyes feeling more like warm fire as they came in contact with yours. “The gods that brought me to you.”

You find yourself staring at him.

The man with bits of bread crumbs on the sides of his mouth, carrying the face of your _Adonis_ that you have etched on rock, was looking at you with big, loving, puppy-dog eyes, talking as if he walked out of a fairytale. And the words coming out of his mouth was just too good to be true.

But still you sit there and do nothing.

After all, this is just a mere gift, the gods bestowing life to one of your masterpieces.

What’s the worst that could happen?

 

 

***

 

 

Only the worst.

You were an artist, not a mother. And you preferred not to be one until you were secure and married to someone you knew you can entrust your body and soul to.

But mothering a towering six-foot-two man who came out of nowhere with just the touch of your hand and the skills of your fingers wasn’t really a challenge you wanted to face, nor a responsibility you wanted to claim.

Not to mention controlling the charm that Tom naturally emitted.

The simple fact of the matter was that Tom was quite the charmer. All he had to do was stroll out of the house wearing your older brother’s forgotten designer shirts and jeans from your closet and the ladies from around town, single or taken, would come flocking to him like mice to the Pied Piper.

You wouldn’t say that he stepped in the world like a newborn, but Tom was a fast learner, quickly learning the native language of your town along with the fluent English he naturally possessed for some good reason.

He was also a naturally social creature, enchanting and amusing everyone he met, whether young or old, male or female. In fact, you might have created the perfect man from your memory while molding him. Such thoughts flew from your hands and into the clay, taking it with him when life was breathed unto him... and all the women could see this.

Although the women were more receptive to his charms, the men were weary of him. None of them dared to question him knowing that you had taken him under your wing; the only logical thing to do since it would be hard to explain how you’re currently oweing an established Art Council an expensive sculpture when this man who looks identical to said missing statue turned up at your door, wearing nothing but a sheet of cloth. In fact, some of the women started to believe that Tom was your model, some of them going so far to believe that he’s your lover, a rumor you blatantly stomp down on, much to the hidden chagrin of your _boy_.

And you started calling him your _boy_ , despite your promise to yourself not to mother him.

Given this power he carried on his own, your _boy_ could have definitely take on any broad he wanted, and every single girl in town seemed to throw themselves at his feet. But like a true doting son towards his blatantly oblivious mother, he seemed to prefer to stay close to you and do nothing at all, except for flirting a little bit here and there.

The truth was you just really want to shrug him off and tell him to be a “free man”, as he said he wanted to be. At one point you got fed up and set him up with the baker’s daughter, you becoming completely oblivious with that hidden sad smile that flashed upon his face as he walked out of your door.

Honestly you would probably _do anything_ to have him stop hovering around you as you tried to focus on creating a new artwork, something you couldn’t even start ever since he came around.

And so this had become your life: the struggling artist and the care-free playboy who came out of nowhere living under her roof.

In fact, you had given the keys to the studio to Tom, making it into his bachelor pad, after he claimed that it felt more like home considering that he was conceived and created there. You would go home and sleep in your flat just upstairs, ensuring that he could always tap on your door or use the keys to your home that you have entrusted to him whenever he needed something, like food and clothing. As much as you both couldn’t physically express gratitude or pride (from you, seeing how amazing your _boy_ has become), there was trust and respect between the two of you, and you were starting to get used to the feeling of having some sort of a younger brother in the form of the man whom you help bring to life.

But this idyllic setting could only last for so long, and as much as you didn’t really wish for such a strange phenomenon to happen to you, complications between the two of you began to arise.

Without even your interference, the _boy_ you brought to life began to brim with passion and beauty as he took his time and smelled the flowers. His nymph-like beauty mixed with the manly scent began to take over his physique as he matured, with stubble beginning to grow on that handsome face since the day he appeared on your doorstep, as the women in town find him even more irresistible.

Soon it was normal for you to find your _boy_ having various affairs in town, entertaining and catering to the attentions of various city girls. What left you baffled was that he seemed to limit to his affections for his numerous “ _friends_ ”, keeping them at an arm’s length once his intent was misinterpreted, unintendedly leaving broken hearts in his wake. And despite the attention he received from the most beautiful women in the city, Tom never seemed satisfied, as he would leave them crying, a new girl in tears night after night, never understanding why _he wouldn’t go the whole mile_.

At first you tried to ask him why he had taken on such a horrid behaviour, but the man could only look at you with questioning eyes filled with confusion and pain as though you couldn’t see the whole picture, and leave you no answer. For some reason the feeling of guilt just kept the issue unsettled between the two of you.

Until the worst happened.

The Mayor’s daughter who had met several times with that _boy_ tried to jump off the bell tower and kill herself after Tom refused to let her back into his haven. Afraid of your reputation, and knowing the problem of keeping the man in your studio, you try to convince him to leave town before the Mayor suspected him and concocted the worst plan that was akin to one of your favourite watercolour pieces being sloshed with black ink and then torn apart into pieces.

However, despite the warnings and the insistent pleading to have your beloved _boy_ leave town, Tom remained stubborn, refusing to budge from where he was.

“I want to stay here! I was born here and I will be dismantled here if that is how my fate is to be decided,” he said, those tears forming in his eyes as he looked at you, standing at a safe distance. You look up at him in complete disbelief at those crystal blue eyes tearing up and you suddenly understand what drove the women crazy. “I don’t want to leave this town.”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to leave _you_.”

As much as you were frustrated with his stubbornness, there was this somewhat motherly feeling within you (that you hated so much, it’s mere existence in you frustrated you) that refused to argue with him even further.

But when the Mayor stirred up the men in town, every single man whose lover, wife, and child that had been captivated by your living sculpture decide to rally with torches, you knew something had to be done. When the ruthless Mayor brought up your name and gave you one warning to either evict “the Tom with no surname” or have yourself be driven from town along with him, your career, reputation, and even your life possibly on the line, you knew something had to be done with the stubborn boy who did not fear for his life just because he used to be made of stone.

 

Thus bringing you back to that night you stood in front of the cheap bed you purchased when you were still a struggling artist, with the most beautiful man sleeping in your old covers.

 

 

***

 

 

You felt like a trespasser, despite it being your own studio.

Your greatest masterpiece, the best in your career lying in your bed, naked as he always slept. After all, this was how he was brought to life, being stark naked the most comfortable thing he has ever known.

You couldn’t help but reminisce of your alternatives.

You tried to send him away, but he refused every time you did. So much for gentle persuasion.

You turned cold, you outright berated him and hurt him with words you never would even dare use against him, but yet Tom would not budge. He tried to shut you out with that brilliant mind of his that could pick up anything and learn skills so quickly, but there was this ounce of pain that you can slightly see in those crystal-clear blue eyes whenever you tried to hurt him with sharp words again, and you never dare try to use this method on him when you failed.

Sitting him down and forcing him to listen to you was out of the question, if you were to use your physical strength. You did try to have other people, _other men_ on your side to carry him out and ship him to safety, but your own skill precedes you as _the perfect man_ managed to overpower them all and remain unscathed, making you _actually hate something you have created_.

You could leave him to be devoured by the Mayor’s men and the rest of the town, but you couldn’t help but shake your head and tear up yourself seeing such a beautiful gentle thing be torn apart in front of your eyes. You couldn’t let them do that. You just can’t. And you didn’t even try to understand why.

There was that quickest way out and you kicked yourself repeatedly for not figuring it out earlier when it was so simple and in your face. You were so frustrated with how long it took you to discover that solution that found yourself screaming early that afternoon when you were running out of ideas of how to _get rid of the boy in the studio_.

 

And you can do it with the touch of a finger.

 

You tried not to think twice or over think the situation. You remind yourself that you are the artist, you are the creator, you are the Maker as he has initially referred to you, and you have got the entire thing under your control, not anyone else’s.

He was your responsibility and you can fix this mess right there and then.

You strode over to the side of the bed, looking at him sleeping peacefully, as you removed the glove from your dominant right hand and hovered it above that beautifully chiselled chest (that you designed yourself) like the mermaid’s dagger. Touching him was akin to stabbing the Prince in the stomach and letting his blood flow from your feet to regain your tail back, as you saw this as the only way to save yourself from the Mayor’s wrath... and to save him from a painful death.

A painful death you didn’t want to watch at all.

As for you, as much as you didn’t want to understand why it hurt like your own metaphorical dagger stabbing your own chest, you considered this act of giving him the “forbidden touch” as mercy. You wouldn’t just stand there and watch him die so dishonourably.

“This should be enough,” you whisper with remorse as you extend your hand towards him, somehow wondering if what he said about the gods and the power of touch being true. To him it was the caress of the Angel of Death, to you it was your Midas Touch.

“After all,” you said, taking a deep breath as you talked to yourself, subtly addressing the man you brought to life out of ivory. “Good things must also come to an end...”

 

Tom suddenly opened his eyes.

 

At first he found himself in complete awe to find you standing just in front of him. But suddenly, he felt himself jerking back, almost knocking his back painfully into the headboard once he found your arms outstretched towards him.

“Why,” he stuttered. “Wh-what are you doing, m-mistress?”

Your face was full of sorrow and regret. “It’s the best way to go, Tom.” You took a deep breath again. “Lilly Mae almost killed herself and her father is furious.”

The man shook his head.

You moved closer towards him. “The Mayor is angry, Tom. The whole town wants you dead.”

His voice shook, looking at you with disbelief.

“B-but I didn’t mean it!  I sent her away with good intentions!”

You tilted your head as you looked at him, now sitting on the edge of his bed as he frantically moved his body out of the way, drawing the sheets around his naked body. “The whole town wants me banished, and the men want you either that or in pieces.” You found yourself huffing, momentarily bringing your hand down. “As much as I hate seeing one of mine being hammered into debris, I prefer you cobbled in parts rather than to have blood splashed all over my studio.”

Horror filled the man’s blue eyes.

“Mistress please!”

You shook your head, light gone from your eyes. “This is the only mercy I can impart on you, sweetie,” you said with your voice being monotonous, even though it can only take you so far to hide the fear and worry in your heart. “What I started, I must finish.”

“P-please,” the man’s chest began to heave out of panic. “Can’t we find another way?”

His eyes gleamed for a moment.

“Won’t you run away with me?”

You didn’t know why, but a sharp gasp escaped your lungs. “I can’t.”  Panic began to show in your voice now. “This will happen again and we’ll keep on hiding, we’ll keep on running. I can’t afford that kind of life!”

“M-mistress, I b-beg of you!”

You jump up on your feet, hovering over him, like a child’s nightmare. “You’ve got to understand, _Tomás_!” Even your voice began to croak and falter as you address him with the name you originally gave him, refusing to use the name he claimed in his first moment of humanity. “As long as you _live_ , as long as you _breathe_ , as long as you’re _here_ , _both of our lives will be in danger_!”

You move closer, as the shivering man moves further away from you.

“And I’d rather turn you back to stone than have both of our bodies broken in this studio.”

You raise your hand, as the man quickly cowers in the corner of the bed, shielding his face with his arms.

Your eyes widen, suddenly realize how horrible it was for the man, the _boy_ you fashioned with your own hands, to have you snuff his life out of his body with one swipe of a hand, just like a father about to beat his most precious son.

You back off from him, slightly terrified of what you were about to do, when you hear a small shaky voice from the bundle of limbs buried underneath your sheets.

“H-how can you be so heartless?”

You raised an eyebrow at his response.

Soon enough, just as you backed away, the _boy_ raises his head from his arms, his eyes now leaking with tears as he looked at you, feeling clearly betrayed. “You always referred to me as if I was an object,” he muttered, his blue eyes scanning your slightly offended expression. “It is true, I am your work of art, but now I am human.  I am _human too_. You can’t –“ His voice faltered once more. “You can’t just turn me off like some piece of equipment.”

You looked at him in shock. Your hand still hovers in midair, as you are suddenly faced with the question of humanity and morality. He was right, even in your own mind you referred to him as _that boy_ and sometimes even called him _it_. But here he was, living, breathing, eating, _loving_. And you dare stand in front of him with a touch that could snuff out the life from his body. You dare take control of his life.

Suddenly, you realize that Tom may have more heart than you could ever have. A sculpture turned human with more love a normal person could offer.

And that made you feel so horrible. Like bitter bile boiling acidic in your rotten insides.

“But that’s the thing,” the voice that escaped your throat sounded so cold, despite what you have heard and realized. You spoke as if your brain and your heart was in complete disconnect. “ _I can_.”

Tears began to flow down Tom’s face as he heard those words from you.

Just seeing him break down completely and helplessly in front of you was too much to bear. As much as you wanted another alternative, this was the only easy way out. “I’m sorry Tom,” you whisper the name he chooses to go by, acknowledging his wants, needs, and humanity even once. “This is for the better.” Your words got choked up in your throat. “It’s for your own good.”

Amidst his tears and his hopeless resolve, the man suddenly looked up at her with a realization forming in his head.

“If...” He whispered quietly. “If this is what you truly want...”

Drowning in guilt and the realization that you have treated your best friend, the only manifestation of your passion and skills, like an object, you already let your hand drop on your knee, not willing to attempt touching him again.

But just as you hear his words, you look up –

Only to see Tom sit up from the bed, moving quick as lightning, as he grabbed your face and planted a long kiss on your lips.

You look at him in horror as he forcefully disengages from your face, as you lose your balance and fall off the bed.

He slowly moves, still kneeling on your bed, looking at you with a painful expression, before his eyes slowly move downward to his outstretched hands in front of him. The whiteness started from the joints, slowly spreading towards the rest of his body. Slowly the rosy glow of his flesh turned into alabaster, and he suddenly grew stiff and upright. The melancholic expression was forever frozen on his face, the tears that were flowing down his cheeks immortalized.

As you looked up at his lifeless form in shock – this was the only time you realized that he wanted his last act to speak for himself. Why he came to life, why he wouldn’t want to stay away from you, why he couldn’t just leave. It was all out of love.

And it rang in your head like that lifeless statue now perched on your bed.

 _He loved you_.

You sat on the cold floor of your studio helpless as you covered your face and started sobbing miserably, in front of a sculpture that once lived, breathed, and _loved_ you for everything you were... and everything you weren’t to him.

 

***

 

You would have been classified as catatonic if you didn’t dare speak during the entire time the Mayor was shaking you by the shoulders.

By the time you came around, the mob was already outside your house and just literally pushed past you, trying to find their victim. They had to break down your studio door in attempt to find the one they want to persecute. But all they found was a newly formed alabaster sculpture hastily set on one of the working wooden pedestal stumps, its upper half veiled with white cloth that wasn’t as white as its surface. The men, still looking for “the man with no surname” didn’t find what they were looking for, and suspiciously lifted the veil on the sculpture, only to find a melancholic face that didn’t seem to ring a bell.

“I don’t like it,” said the butcher whose wife wouldn’t stop talking about _your boy_ carrying a sledge-hammer.

“Neither do I,” said the grocer whose twin daughters lay in their beds day in and day out after they stopped seeing Tom in the cafe almost a week ago.

“Let’s destroy it,” said the bar owner whose lover left him, as he raised his axe towards that sculpture that originally came from your bed.

That was when you found your voice.

“Gentlemen, please!”

You finally snapped out of your tear-stained and catatonic state, managing to shrug off the Mayor’s unfriendly hand on your shoulder, as you quickly rose from your seat in defense of your _artwork_ that was now the current target of the angry men in your neighborhood. Unable to find an outlet for their anger towards Tom, they have chosen to destroy this seemingly identical stone replica of the man in your studio. Little do they know that the damage they want done will definitely push through if they tear that statue to pieces.

“Please!” Just the thought of his words and the last act he made while he was still breathing. “Don’t touch the sculpture! If you want it destroyed, let me destroy it myself! I –” Your voice began to break. “It’s my own creation. Please at least give me the courtesy to dismantle what I created.”

The moment you saw the men back away from the slab of stone was when you realized that you still had their respect. But the suspicious looks in their eyes and the disgusted expressions in their faces reminded you of the rumor going about that the “irresponsible man” could not hold a commitment because he was in this complicated, polygamous, open relationship with you.

A story that was partly false...

Yet somewhat true.

However, despite their disapproving sneers and suspicious jeering, they all moved away from Tom for good with just one signal from the Mayor. Clapping you on the shoulder, the obnoxiously rude man who held two terms said to you, “I knew you could be trusted when we _politely asked you_ to get rid of that man.”

Waiting until everyone had left the studio, he leaned closer to you and whispered, “We respect the fact that you are the only established artist that rose internationally out of the townsfolk.” He snorted ironically. “But I want that sculpture gone.”

You could only stare at him in absolute horror as he also left you in your somewhat ransacked studio. In the silence of the room you found your gaze settling on the sculpture whose cover had been violently snatched from its surface, strewn on the floor.

From where you stood, all you could see was the heartbreak on the effigy’s face.

 

 

***

 

 

You slept in the studio that night.

As much as it would have been horrific to sleep just near the cold, lifeless statue that was once a man, you couldn’t help it at all as you threw yourself in the bed where he slept in, sobbing into the sheets. And to think of it, you haven’t slept in this bed for ages, not until now.

You hated yourself. You hated yourself for not noticing it earlier – his tenderness, his gentleness, and the way he gazed at you. The way he stubbornly refused to leave you, as well as the way he would look longingly at you as you worked when he thought you didn’t see him. Most of all you hated the fact that you were so cold and cruel to the man brought about by your hands, something of yours that loved you deeply.

And it felt like a sharp pang in your chest, it felt as though _you murdered someone_.

You rub your cheeks against the still warm sheets where he slept only hours ago. It was now missing a layer, since one of the quilts became part of his effigy, just as he originally came with that piece of cloth that you fashioned for his likeness the first time you brought him to life through stone. Now the missing blanket was like a tongue-in-cheek reminder of all your pain, and the fact that he returned to what he originally was – as you earlier claimed was the best fate for him.

But now in all your remorse, you sob once more into the sheets that still smelled of him, wishing that one layer of bedding wasn’t missing along with the man who slept in it for months on end.

You raise your now ruffled bed head, turning to look at the haunting statue that sat on your working pedestal, the moonlight shining upon his torso, illuminating that desperate look that was still on you before he froze back into stone.

And just by seeing this rendered you to tears once more, your vision of him blurring at that very moment.

You did touch him again.

You did it once, after he froze. You thought it would undo the process. Your eyes still wet with tears, your shaking hand that threatened to take away his life moved forward to touch his now cold cheek, the hardened tears pressing against your hand like tiny soft bumps on smooth alabaster. You turned to look at your hands, identifying them in your mind with disgust as if they belonged to a murderer’s, but then you are reminded of the fact that it was Tom who sealed his fate himself by planting a kiss on your lips.

That only made you cry even more.

You did it again before you went to bed, running the back of your hand against his face, trying to remember his smile. He had the sweetest smile, something you can’t even fathom or imagine when you tried to picture the _perfect man_ within the stone. His expressions were unique, a fingerprint he could only carry, but his smile was what he defined him. And tears just kept rolling down your face as you nudged the side of that cold mouth that would never smile again.

You then went to bed and tried to sleep your own guilt and heartache away, hoping like in the fairytales, you’d wake up and everything is just a dream, and that Tom was real and you didn’t have to ruin this happiness for him, for you, or for anyone else.

But you woke up in the wee hours of the morning, dawn about to break in an hour, with the entire studio still drenched in darkness.

The first thing you did was to gaze at the sculpture that sat about two feet from you, hoping that you’d find him again the same way you found him, naked and swaddled in cloth, sleeping at the foot of the pedestal.

Yet there he was, still and cold as the stone as he is.

Resolved to his fate and your eternal remorse, you rose from bed, remembering the promise you had to keep to the Mayor.

Breaking the statue was akin to you cutting out your heart. It had to be the most vile and horrible act you would do in your entire life and it was one that would haunt you forever. You felt like true a murderer. But still you couldn’t stop but think that if he never came to life, would you ever feel the same about a slab of stone?

You couldn’t help but think about how a single statue could cause so much pain.

Still sleepy and still sniffling, you shuffled out of bed, the sheets where your _boy_ slept in pooling on the ground as you set your feet on the floor. You weakly hobbled towards an old sledge hammer with an old rotting wooden handle that you haven’t used for a long time. After all, you weren’t one who would angrily smash your artwork into pieces. Not until now.

You moved slowly and lazily, as if you tried to procrastinate on the impending order of the new _Deliverer’s_ own destruction. If it was a lethal injection procedure, you found yourself hobbling down the Green Mile as if you were drugged, taking your time before getting to the execution room. Suddenly you felt like an executioner and the death sentence was the most sickening ironic thing that has ever crossed your path.

But you had to have this task done – on your life.

Half of you wished that you would turn to stone as well, so that you wouldn’t have to do this dirty deed, and be left to the Mayor’s men to be broken into pieces. The thought of your broken fragments mixing with Tom’s alabaster dust somewhat set your heart at peace, knowing that even in the worst case scenario, the man who lived for a few months still managed to be joined with you in another kind of way.

The sledge hammer felt heavy in your hands as you lifted it, with you not even bothering to wear your protective gear. You tried to ignore the fact that the wood handle felt rickety, as if it wouldn’t last another beating, as if it would dislodge itself and burst into pieces if you had the metal meet with stone... the same way that would happen to your heart if you found _Tomás the Deliverer_ reduced into rubble.

You lift your head, straining to see through your swollen eyes as you looked at his face for the last time. As much as you swore that you created his likeness from memory, with no reference, no model, no other inspiration but the gods and demigods of Greek and Roman mythology. You swore that his likeness came to you in a dream.

Your grip on the handle began to wobble, as you prepared for the swing.

But as your eyes began to water, completely blurring your view of the sculpture you were about to demolish, your emotions got the best of you as you suddenly lost grip of the hammer that seemed to crumble in your hands.

 

_Thwak!_

 

You felt power drain from your arms as they fell from the raised position over your shoulder, as your straining muscles gave way. The metal face of the hammer slammed into the cemented floor of you studio with a loud crack, as the rotting wood of the handle was almost splintered in two, its waist chipping into various shards with a very thin sinew that held the tip and the bottom together.

You felt a sharp pain burst through your right palm, wincing as you raised it to your blurry eyes, the color of red swimming on the center of your hand. Losing all power and resolve to destroy your masterpiece and the remnants of a man who showed you true love you’ve never ever seen before, you pitifully burst into a violent sob once more, unable to hold the tears back.

You stagger forward, your bloodied hand smearing against the chest of the ill-fated statue as you fall on your knees into a kneeling position in front of Tom, sobbing in complete anger and hatred towards yourself and your incapability to save him as you realize that you didn’t even have the power to destroy him. Your willpower had weakened  to a point that there was nothing, and you felt so useless that you couldn’t even complete a task to save your reputation, even your life. And you stand there, empty handed, without even the warmth of your would-be lover, a tragic end fit for a horrible artist who cannot love something beyond stone.

And with this realization you press your forehead against your ivory creation, unknowingly drenching that cold face with your tears, losing your own will to live.

 

You drowned in the pain aching on your hand, in your chest, and that throb filling your head.

A fear shadowed your heart, a fear for your career, a fear for your future, and a fear for your life.

But none of that mattered anymore.

 

You felt your head sink against the statue’s firm shoulder, engulfing yourself in the sorrow and misery that befitted an ungrateful artist like you, knowing that despite your full acceptance and understanding of the now non-existent man, you couldn’t bring him back.

You tried to find solace in your embrace of the statue, despite your belief that you couldn’t undo what has been done. Somehow, holding him with both your wounded and unscathed hand slowly began to calm your aching heart, as your tears continued to flow against the crook of the statue’s neck.

However, the moment you moved your nose, you felt as if something was... different.

The crook of his neck felt soft.

Your eyes flew open as you retract your tear-stained face from the sculpture, your surroundings still blurry with the tears in your eyes and the darkness before dawn. But upon seeing your tears imprinted on damp _rosy flesh_ , you quickly moved away from the effigy only to find two thoughtfully worried blue eyes peering back at you.

A gasp escaped your lungs as your eyes began to clear.

It seems as if the alabaster from the sculpture had melted away, and you found yourself cradled in the arms of the same man who wept and kissed you in the most tragic way possible in your old antique bed just hours earlier. His hands were still positioned in the same way you left them when he turned to stone, but he effortlessly flexed his limbs as he turned to look at you with so much warmth into those turquoise eyes, with his gaze slowly falling towards the blood smeared on his chest.

You watch as the statue that was now flesh and bone furrow his eyebrows, movement confirming his re-animation.

“Darling,” Tom worriedly exclaims as he takes your wounded hand that smeared blood on his pectorals. “You’re hurt!”

You watch him with awe and relief as he takes your bleeding palm and holds it in both hands, focusing on the wound rather than peering into your eyes that were now crying tears of joy as you watched him move and survey you, checking as if you’re alright.

“We should get you the bandages,” Apprehension was clear in his voice as he attempted to move off the wooden pedestal. “The cut doesn’t seem too deep.”

He quickly shut himself up as you let out a small gasp, as your unwounded hand slowly moved against his warm angled cheek. For a moment you can sense the panic course through his veins, remembering the first condition of his capability to live and breathe. But as he remained warm and mobile, relaxed and comfortable in your hands, you watched as he sweetly closed his eyes as you moved your thumb to caress his face, finding solace in your touch – _and finally realizing that now he could be touched by you._

“How –” your voice began to break between hiccups and sobs, despite the spreading smile on your face, as you slowly let your wounded hand’s fingers trace against his smooth clavicles, ignoring the pain seeping from your palm. Despite the pang and the throb, there was no better override through the physical pain than to hear your heart beat louder than anything you have ever heard.

“How could it be that…”

Your _boy_ raised his other hand and cupped yours that cradled his face, that familiar sweet smile spreading across those now warm lips.

“How could it be that you’re back?” You felt another sob escape your throat. “But you have no idea...you can’t imagine how this is so...” You tilted your head into his touch, your own eyes fluttering. “Wonderful...”

His voice sounded like honey to your ears.

“The gods heard your cry,” he said softly, bringing his face closer to yours, enthralled by the way his nose brushed against your cheeks. Every little thing, every touch that wasn’t available to him before brought him so much joy and happiness, and you can feel it through the way his heart throbbed against your hand as you let your unwounded palm wander against his chest.

 

“So they decided to bring me back,” He took a deep breath. “With your love.”

 

Your jaw dropped, as your vision of him blurred once more, your eyes being flooded with tears.

You can hear him chuckle upon seeing your surprised expression, as you pried your bleeding hand free from his grip as you grabbed both the sides of his face, pulling him into a kiss you couldn’t hold back anymore.

 

As an artist you unfortunately knew of stone, but you didn’t expect him to taste like this.

He was made of a dozen different tastes, and various different aromas and phenomena felt and experienced through time and space. His breath that mingled with yours and that mouth that you only got to explore that one time you knew he wouldn’t be animatedly suspended for all time reminded you of the earth. The tastes, the feelings, the colors that you saw in the middle of being lost in his arms and his kiss complimented the way he moved his mouth and the way his breathing mingled with yours, singlehandedly reminding you of an undying passion not even your sculptor’s hands can immortalize.

You barely noticed how the blood on your wound had dried up. It was either the wound wasn’t that deep as he previously stated, or the miracle of having Tom brought back to life was passed on to you through elevated healing regenerations. All that was important at that moment was how he was in your arms, how warm he felt, how he quickly dried up your tears and replaced them with those made of joy, and how you could feel the love and the longing with just the movement of his mouth.

You let your hands wander this time as you knelt in front of him, and as he pulled you closer to his naked body. You let your touch engulf him, with your fingers tracing every inch of him, as you allowed yourself to explore him the way you refused to touch and inspect your sculpture based on your artistic traditions and the fear of soiling or denting a final work. But this time you weren’t thinking of an object.  You no longer saw him as an object.

The way his skin seemed to thrum and glow underneath his Maker’s hands, with the way his heat responded to your touch with every brush of your finger, you knew he was real. His words, his kisses, his once forbidden touch was now real, and you need not worry of the sin you once wanted to commit from him. If there was a sin you wanted to commit to him, it was to devour him.

 

And with the way you touched him, the way you lovingly cradled his face in your hands, only then you realize why he was the only one from all your works that came to life.

 

He was made out of love.

 

You dared to disengage from his kiss, a loud smack emanating in the silence of the dark room; as you found yourself looking into Tom’s hooded eyes now surveying you with much longing, sincerity, and passion. You realized that you haven’t stopped crying when he gently wiped away the tears from your cheeks, his gaze now melting what’s left of your cold once-unfeeling heart with how he doted and adored you with just the touch of his hands.

“I…,” your voice still shook, despite having lost yourself in his desperate fondling, not noticing how the heated embrace slowly caused your shirt to slip off your shoulders, revealing your smooth skin underneath. “I’m sorry I tried to hurt you.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, and you can see the forgiveness coming even before he could say it. And this made you tear up even more, feeling so unworthy, feeling so undeserving of the perfect man that you sculpted out with your bare hands.

 

“I’m sorry I tried to push you away.”

 

There was an emotion in Tom’s eyes that you never imagined before.

A whole new fire seemed to be alit inside of him, and you felt it emanate underneath his fingertips, even through his chest as he pressed his breast against yours. This new fire made him even more human, and this was a fire you knew that no one else could snuff out. Not even his Maker who dared take away his life with just the touch of her hand.

As he touched you, that searing fire seemingly being transferred from his being onto yours, you realize how much more human Tom would ever be as he roughly slipped your shirt off your person, almost bursting its buttons. You knelt there completely naked, almost as stark as he was when you first created him out of alabaster.

And before you stood a man with enough desire to last for the ages, ready to imprint himself into this life as he was reborn and here to stay.

You were standing in front of a _real_ man and not even your stubbornness would cancel his existence out.

But even before a gasp could escape your lips, even before you can quiver in front of this self-made man who was single-handedly molded by your hands and brought to life twice, you  felt those strong big hands grab you by the shoulders as he plunged those burning lips right onto yours, before proceeding to meld his naked physique against your own, hands frantically touching you as if he can never get enough of you, as if he wanted to assimilate you into his own.

The voice that escaped him was enough to burn you alive with the passion you knew would consume you with one stroke.

 

“Hold me,” he said gasping, those hands kneading into your thighs

 

“Break me.” His fingers tangled into your hair as he smothered you hard with his lips, both your faces almost molded into one another with how he was intensely holding you.

 

“Mold me anew…”

 

You almost felt like screaming as he put a test to his teeth, sinking it against your skin, literally wanting to devour you, to taste you. His canines left a mark, and all you could think of was how your skin was on fire. But as his mouth travelled downwards, caressing frantically as he tried to take in as much as he can of his _Mistress_ ’s bare skin, all you can think of is the sensual fire about to burn the two of you inside out with how he made you tremble in places you never thought of trembling.

When his mouth has disengaged from your hip, a blazing trail of invisible red flame crisscrossing in an uneven path from your mouth, to your neck, to your collarbones, to your breasts and over your very sensitive Venus Mound. He looked up at you with eyes of a hawk who had just completely surveyed his prey.

But the words that escaped his lips were more than you could bargain for.

 

 

“ _My darling mistress_ , _”_ he said with that pink tongue darting out of his lips, wetting them. _“Show me now what your love is made of_.”

 

You gently parted your own lips as you lovingly touched his cheeks, which once made your heart burn when you realized you cannot undo them from stone. You momentarily saw his eyes flutter, briefly yielding to that loving touch you subjected him to. Although both of you know how Tom was becoming addicted to the caress of your fingers, just as the thought of them touching him once and forever turning him to stone made his heart ache and have him completely lose hope of showing you how much he loves you with just his hands.

“Close your eyes, my sweet _Adonis_.” You found yourself referring to him as the loveliest thing the world has ever graced its eyes upon. You saw his eyes flutter as he bit his lips, completely faltering with the loving yet seductive tone of your voice. “I’ll show you what love is.”

You sank your lips against his again the moment he closed his eyes.

That was when you lost yourself in his essence.

Both of you almost completely naked, his lower body swaddled in the cloth from the bed and you still in your underwear, you allowed your beloved _Adonis_ to take you upon his lap as you straddled him with your strong thighs.

You let your hands wander about his beautiful torso, this time exploring them not as an artist, but a curious lover who wanted to imprint her feelings upon the warmth of his smooth skin. He did the same thing, but his fingers were singing a song of joy of finally having able to touch you, feel you, hold you as he had always been dreaming of for the past two months of his existence, even before you completely conceived him and he was just a thought concept in your mind.

But both your passions were too great for just exploration.

You saw his humanity and fierce personality burst through as he clutched and clawed at you, trying to find a way to relieve his desire of you. His hands once made of stone made imprints on your breasts, indents on your thighs, and claw marks on your ass. He unconsciously thrust his crotch against yours, a burgeoning erection forming every single time the tip of his endowed thickness brushed against your slowly moistening center, causing you to slip your underwear off your thighs with the help of his own hands.

However, you took your own time exploring and desiring him as well.

Your hands were in fists, his clumps of gold hair sticking out from every space in between every finger, with both your faces hidden, pressed against each other. Your mouth on its own left imprints on his clavicles and his chiselled chest, admiring him more than this handsome block of stone you left in your studio long ago. With every kiss you left on his skin, with every nip and indent you made on his body with your teeth, you began to appreciate him more than the artwork you had originally envisioned, but you began to love him more as a man whom you wanted to share your love and body with.

 

You were no longer his _maker_ and he was no longer your _masterpiece,_ you were _one whole magnum opus_.

 

As your bodies melded and your desires slowly reaching their peaks, you stopped subtly studying him with your hands and slowly began to give in to both of your carnal desires. As a woman, you began to pay attention to that thickening girth that was nudging against your thigh, especially with the way you rubbed and teased it with your glistening folds.

You lowered your hand and took his wonderfully designed cock in your hands, suddenly realizing it was thicker than you remembered when you were fashioning him on stone with a scalpel. It throbbed in response to your sensual touch, as you looked up to find the man making a perfect “O” with those luscious lips.

 

“Is it,” he moaned in your mouth, a stray line of saliva connecting both your lips stretching as he momentarily disengaged from you. “Is it supposed to feel that way?”

 

A fire within you blared upon realizing that your Adonis is a _virgin_.

He did not fuck the ladies around town as the Mayor and the townspeople had feared.

You suddenly realized that he was saving himself in the hope of touching you, loving you. He wanted himself only for you.

You drew his hair back, caressing those golden curls that bounced at the tip of your finger as you lovingly disengaged from his lips so you can whisper in the man’s ear. But just your lips brushing against his lobe was enough for his cock to stand at attention against your slightly aching palm, tempting you to shove it up in your moistening folds.

“Do you like it, love?” You ask him in a breathy voice.

Tom gritted his teeth as you closed your fist around the head, pushing it down towards the base in an agonizing manner. You felt yourself clench when he opened his eyes and looked at you with so much longing.

 

“ _Yes_ , _darling Mistress_.”

 

You opened your mouth about to retort, but only a gasp could come out of it when you felt precum pool around your fingers when you brought it up to the head of his cock once more.

 

“ _Do you want me to show you how it is to be loved, darling boy?_ ”

 

Tom shut his eyes, his jaw unhinging as he threw his head back when you relaxed your thighs on his, the contact of your outer folds gently nudging against his cock in your hand for a moment.

“Yes! _Please!_ ” he gasped with so much strain and longing. “I want to know how it is to be loved by you, _only you!_ ”

Your pupils dilated.

For the first time you were about to make love to the perfect man.

 _Your_ perfect man.

Gritting your teeth, you hiked yourself up in a kneeling position on top of him again, aligning your dripping folds with the head of his cock, dipping your hips at least twice to tease his beautiful girth. He waited with bated breath as he watched you in complete curiosity, as you realized that he was aware of his sexuality but was not completely explorative about it...

Until he saw you in a dress, contemplating your next artwork. Until he saw you climbing out of the shower, as he waited for his turn. Until he saw you having your morning coffee, a table away from him, making sure you both did not touch. Until he saw you buried in your Art Theory books, trying to prepare another dissertation for the Masters. Until he saw you look back at him with those big doe eyes and flashed him a toothy smile.

And of course, until he saw you slowly easing his cock inside of you, your knees wobbling as you did so, only for you to throw your head back with a haunting moan when you managed to take in his entire length despite your girth being a challenge.

You can barely remember anything after the initial penetration.

But you remember fire, sensual fire.

Everything turned red as you found yourself clawing at his glorious blond curls once more, both of you whimpering and screaming in passion with every attempt of movement. Desire flared through your bodies, heat burning both your skin, a definitive sexual wail blaring through both your skulls; next thing you knew you were roughly kissing him once more as he succumbed to instinct and began to jerk his hips, pulling out and thrusting deeper with every movement.

Your love was interrupted with gasps and whimpers, as his pleading desire was littered with moans and grunts. You held on to each other as if you were about to tear each other apart; and yet with how you touched, embraced and kissed one another, it was as if you were both scrambling against time to put each other back together again. And yet despite everything, there was a disbelief in the corner of your brain that you were currently devouring and being devoured by a figment of your imagination half a year in the making.

 

_How was it to fuck your artwork?_

You didn’t even know how.

_But how was it to make love to a man?_

This is how it’s done.

 

With the endless kisses and the burning desire that left him to try to search for purchase as he gripped your back, your thighs, and your ass. You watched him slowly lose himself, lose himself in his desire for you, as he shut his eyes closed and jerked his hips in rhythm to the own beat of his heart. You can feel his body shake, realizing he was so close to his first orgasm, and you can see the color spreading from his cheeks to his chest, the flow of blood making you beam with joy as you watched how alive your _Adonis_ could be.

But as he slowly lost control, his hips moving in an erratic rhythm now, as you watched in complete awe with how he gracefully used his limbs and how your glorious sculpture came to life and made love to his Maker.

You swore that Tom was about to burst and you were willing to give him that orgasm first, until you saw those eyes flutter open, his eyes burning with a blue flame that was to do more than consume you.

You felt your heart stop when he issued this loud and feral grunt, as he stood up from his sitting position on the wooden pedestal, hauling you up in the air with his cock still thrust hard inside of you, throbbing wildly against your tight walls.

Before you can retort or squeak, the man suddenly carried you over this abandoned clean pile of sheets that fell of the bed, laying you flat on the soft surface, before spreading your legs and thrusting himself deeper into your already swollen folds.

It took no time for him to position yourself above you, as he completely responded with an erotic groan as you fastened your hands in his curls once more, as he slung both your legs around his hips, giving him deeper access into you. Without waiting for your signal, your Adonis began to hammer himself into your depths, the head of his cock relentlessly hitting that wall of pleasure that slowly began to wash over you, turning you inside out.

 

_You screamed._

 

You screamed to the high heavens. You threw your head back and screamed your lungs out as he smothered the rest of you with kisses, as you displayed passion, displayed fire, displayed life. You screamed as if you were giving birth.

But you were bringing something to life after all, as you gave him your everything, you ensured that life stayed, that life prevailed.

You were giving this power to him.

 

Tom on the other hand, held on to your body for his dear life.

 

He followed the rhythm of his heart and the rhythm of his body, and he made love to you as you initially demonstrated, only returning the desire and the satisfaction tenfold. But he gave it his all, unleashing his full fury, the tension showing on the lines on his face as he buried himself into you without fail, only to unbury himself once again.

He gave you his all, every single desperate nip on your neck, every single curl of his tongue against your hardening nipples, and every emotion-fuelled kiss that he planted on your lips. For one night he loved you without fail, and hold you as if the sun wouldn’t rise in a few hours in fear that he would not see you again. After all, it did happen to him once, and he’s not sure when it could possibly happen again.

But as he opened his eyes, and tears began to fall down from them, he found himself smiling as he looked at your face contorted with wild pleasure, as you gently caressed his face and tangled your fingers in his hair. He was confident because he knew that with your love, he can stay.

 

This time, he was confident that with your touch, he could stay.

 

And that was when his body stiffened.

 

He did not turn to stone, but his desire turned into pure liquid. It filled you up to the core, jumpstarting the momentary climb to your own climax as you watched his eyes roll towards the back of his head, with his jaw falling slack as he bent over you, shuddering.

By the time he opened his eyes, he was ready to collapse, and he didn’t want to hold anyone else but you as he tried to unbury himself from the quake you coaxed out of him.

 

Upon seeing this, your insides began to throb as well.

 

You screamed once more and this time it was for yourself.

A scream of relief –

A scream of life –

As if you were reborn again...

Reborn with him.

 

 

***

 

Tom woke up, completely disoriented.

The first thing he saw was that mirrored ceiling in your studio, realizing that he had fallen asleep on those pile of blankets on the floor. It wasn’t very comfortable, considering that it was cold and the cement floor was tough to lie on. And considering that the blankets were working as padding on his back against the hardness of the floor; he suddenly woke up with a bit of discomfort after finding the sheets wrapped around part of his body, in his attempt to warm himself during that chilly morning.

But with the calmness on his face and the faint smile on his lips, he woke up as if he had various memories from previous lives and horrors from unusual events stripped out of him and then returned to him while he was asleep. However, despite the knowledge he gained even before his moment of awareness, the memories he had before he had been cast to stone again, and everything he was aware of while he was trapped in the statue, the man felt peace, calm, and contentment, as well as a wonderful promise of a good life ahead of him.

His thoughts were interrupted though when he felt something warm and wet press against the slope of his neck...

And on the swell of his chest...

And above his navel...

And finally on the grooves embedded on his hips.

He looked down to find your hair brushing against his bare skin, as you looked up with your glistening lips to find him awake. You couldn’t help but issue a smile, almost as if you were caught, when you find those blue eyes surveying you.

It warmed your heart when a sweeter smile than yours spread across that godly face.

The living statue turned to you as he sat up, running his fingers through your hair, causing you to sit up from your kneeling position as well, as you sleepily looked at his lips, as if you never got enough at all.

“Did you sleep at all, darling?”

You gave him a blank stare and shook your head.

Tom frowned and you just couldn’t tell him how his plethora of emotions unable to be captured on stone exhilarated you.

“The sun has been up for hours,” he scolded you, something that you would not expect him to be doing during the entire time you thought you were mothering him. It was only now after you got to know him intimately and not just by proportions and perspective when you eased up and allow him to be more... like himself. Whatever he was supposed to be. “And we have barred the doors as you have issued a statement that whatever that needed to be destroyed had been destroyed. Why strain yourself the extra hours, mistress?”

You pursed your lips after his lengthy lecture.

“I...” You bit your lip, finding yourself genuinely worried about him for the first time ever since you first met him – all flesh and bone, and heart. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be...yourself, I mean…” You winced, trying to find your words, completely missing the way he furrowed his eyebrows at you, a small gentle smile forming in the side of his mouth as he realized how much he adored you. “I was afraid you would turn back to stone when I wake up.”

For a few moments, those blue eyes were blank.

You looked at his vacant expression, getting worried that he’d be cross with you, when a flash of that vibrant personality that you didn’t know was hidden underneath all that beautiful alabaster suddenly surfaced. He flitted his eyes towards you those beautiful long eyelashes fluttering as he produced a smirk, only to give you a devilish smile once more as he inched towards you, tilting his head as he ran the back of his fingers against your cheek.

“But I thought I was only your work of art?” He inquired a bit of pain in his tone.

You knew this would come up. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, you turned to face him with an answer you did not expect to come out from you.

“You’re not mine anymore,” you whispered as you took his face in your hands, allowing your thumbs to caress those sharp cheekbones. You saw him blink once, a flash of pain forming in his eyes as he listened to you intently.

“You belong to yourself.”

You took another deep breath as you smoothed your hands down from his face down the slender slope of his shoulders. “You shouldn’t belong to anyone. Your life is now your own. Given that I no longer have the power to snuff it out of you...” You turn to look at him then, apprehension in your eyes. “Not that I want that power. I don’t want to have that power anymore.”

You look away, wondering if any of your words would hurt him, when you mean the opposite. And you only mean the best for him.

You wanted him to be free, you wanted him to live.

To your surprise he slipped his thumb underneath your chin as he guided your face to look at his. What surprised you is that overflowing amount of love that can be seen in the tears forming in his eyes as he gazed at you.

“But, my lady,” he whispered quietly, those eyes fluttering, staining his long eyelashes with his tears. “My heart will always belong to you.”

Unable to hold yourself back, you threw your hands around his neck and embraced him hard.

You never found yourself to be this affectionate.

In fact, previous lovers would describe you to be too reserved and too secretive of your feelings. They would say how everything that you tried to hide would pour out of your artworks, and what they said was true. But when your dream man is brought to life from stone and he asks for nothing else but your love, suddenly giving back love to your masterpiece made so much sense in this situation.

However, the kiss he returned to you was so chaste and so sincere.

It was laden with so much loving and concern, something you’ve always wished from your often pre-occupied suitors and distant lovers. As he held you with those strong robust hands and pressed your body closer against his, you felt a kind of comfort you would not find anywhere else but home... as if you knew him your entire life. For a moment, you felt as if you dreamed this perfect man to life. And this joy, this emanating warmth that was akin to his heartbeat humming against your bare chest, just made you smile through the kiss.

He gently disengaged, breathing deeply, as you felt your head sink against his shoulder. You began to doze off, suddenly finding comfort in the fact that everything was going to be alright, and he’s going to be by your side.

Seeing you slowly succumb to slumber against his body without any hesitations brought about this gentle adoring smile on his face as he took your head and laid it on his chest, moving both your bodies to lie on the sheets once more.

“Please, mistress,” he gently whispered in your hair as he gathered the sheets earlier covering his body, wrapping it around you. “Sleep.”

Finding solace in his words and in his arms, you sleepily nodded your head.

“I will be here for you,” he spoke as he cradled you in his arms, your back flush against his strong chest. “You know that I will protect you.”

You both lay still for a moment as you drifted off to sleep, ignoring the bright ray of sunshine flooding into your studio.

You did not however realize how Tom remained awake behind you, gently tracing patterns on your bare skin, listening to your breathing.

" _Blood of my blood, tears of my soul, my flesh and bone,_ " he gently whispered in your ear as he held you in his arms, pressing his body against your back.

He closed his eyes as tears fell from them, as a smile of relief spread across his lips.

“ _I promise to live this life only for you._ ”

*******

 

 

You couldn’t wait to get out of there.

You both knew that you had to move out of town. Getting him out and away from the Mayor’s grasp is suddenly fairly easy, after you realized how much a chameleon the man could be when you managed to dye his hair black and hid him under an old hoodie with your father’s forgotten aviators. You claimed that he was your older brother visiting you, asking that you go with him and his family down in Central Europe. A little bit of a chit chat and producing a bag of crushed stone after demolishing an older sculpture that you never finished, you finally get to leave the horrible town where you were born in.

They said that they would be happy to receive you back, even the rude Mayor commissioning you for another sculpture of his bust. But you said you’d be travelling the world and studying again, and maybe produce work for shows abroad. Of course, you subtly declined the Mayor, telling him that you’d consider his offer if you would ever return.

But you never planned to.

Once on the road and away from prying eyes, you both wouldn’t stop talking about the life ahead of you. Considering the books he had read, Tom was suddenly curious to see these Classical sculptures that brought him to life, awed with the idea of visiting Paris, Venice, and all those beautiful Romantic cities. You realize that _your boy_ was a romantic at heart, and this made your own heart flutter.

He was also eager to learn, quick to join you in enrolling in probably one of the famous Arts Academies in Paris, wanting to discover more about himself. You already knew that for some damned reason, the man seemed to have a knowledge and intellect of a very intelligent undergraduate College Student when he came to life, but he was willing to learn more. Somehow, the sapiosexual in you was turned on when he dreamed of learning other languages.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get to Rome.

You couldn’t wait to see the Coliseum, and to visit the well-known museums where you received invitations to. You couldn’t wait to be immersed in the art and culture, as well as to possibly interact with the other masters – probably have yourself be mentored by one of them. In fact, famous art universities in the area had been sending you invitations after seeing photographs of your so-called “doomed” artwork called _The Deliverer_ – the one that never turned up in Paris.

In fact, your _missing_ artwork made you some sort of a celebrity.  As the disappearance of the _Deliverer_ became the talk of the art communities all over the world, as the Paris Museum commissioned you for something similar to the sculpture you were supposed to give to them. You were more than willing to provide another artwork because you claim that this time you have found the perfect model. As the rumor mill began to circulate once more in the international art community about your infamous artwork, well-known journalists and artist personalities would ask you about your _muse_ , you couldn’t help but give them a smile akin to Mona Lisa... as if you knew something they don’t. Which you actually do.

And Tom?

He was just simply happy to be alive, thriving, and travelling the world.

But most of all he was more than happy to be actually holding your hand the entire time.

 


End file.
